


Eternit(a)y

by Thyra279



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Experimental?, First Time, Like describing a few minutes slow, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), probably, soft, very slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279
Summary: Fuck fuck fuck fuck-This is, this pressure, this thing they're doing, this- it can't, it can't be this fuuuuck it can't be this good-"Just- oh, just so, yes, just so..."Aziraphale stops his little chants, lets out a deep, breathless moan instead and Crowley thinks he might just break apart, come undone, fucking explode right there, and wouldn't that be ironic now that the world's starting up again, when they're finally here, unapologetically and openly and obviously on their own side. No, he'll keep it together for Aziraphale, for his own fucking dignity. Deep breaths, deep breaths, not that he needs them but he might die without; he'll slam his hips into Aziraphale and that would be equally fucking bad.Breathe.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 191
Collections: The Ineffable Con 2





	Eternit(a)y

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

This is, this pressure, this thing they're doing, this- it can't, it can't be this fuuuuck it can't be this good-

"Just- _oh_ , just so, _yes_ , just so..."

Aziraphale stops his little chants, lets out a deep, breathless moan instead and Crowley thinks he might just break apart, come undone, fucking _explode_ right there, and wouldn't that be ironic now that the world's starting up again, when they're finally here, unapologetically and openly and obviously on their own side. No, he'll keep it together for Aziraphale, for his own fucking dignity. Deep breaths, _deep breaths_ , not that he needs them but he might die without; he'll slam his hips into Aziraphale and that would be equally fucking bad.

 _Breathe_.

Eyes firmly closed. _Slow_ , you useless bloody demon. Breathe, _breathe_ , slow, creep into this delicious tightness. Focus on that, on the sensation, the sensation you can deal with, the delicious, skin-peeling tightness on your prick. Don't think about – _don't_ – the gorgeous, ridiculous entity, the _angel_ gripping your elbows and stroking your shoulders, little things that in themselves would've been unthinkable just a few weeks ago, fuck just a week, two days ago. Forget. _Ffffforget_ about the fingers moving into the ticklish little hairs at the nape of your neck ah fuck ffforget them as you slip in, bit by bit, this fffucking perfect- perfect- slip into _him_ , into your angel, _into Aziraphale and shit, shit-_

Suddenly, suddenly, he's there, after an eternity, all of _fucking_ eternity, all the way in and it's mad, it's mental, it's fucking _insane_ , everything still except the angel's- except _Aziraphale's_ shallow breaths and he's lovely fingers in his- his hair and. And _buggering fuck_ he can't think about it or he'll, he'll, he'll-…

***

Crowley shakes above him, flushed so beautifully, ever so beautifully, each of his breaths, his useless, hot breaths hitting his face, his cheek, his jaw and such a thing… oh, such a thing really has no business being as pleasant as this, as simple and perfect and incredible as this. Aziraphale is burning, burning away, right there at the edges, burning up with love and well, _yes_ and lust; burning _there_ , this unused part of him lit up around the demon, burning, burning with the utterly terrifying, magnificent thing that they're doing, and someone ought to chisel, to- to keep him safe for all eternity, this vision above him, his demon, his Crowley, to chisel him in stone, marble, time, bury it deep in one of those yet-unrecovered pyramids, keep him safe, this happy, this _perfect_ , utterly perfect for all eternity. Keep him safe, please, please, goodness knows he deserves it. _Please. Oh please, yes._

He holds him, digs his fingers into his sweaty, boiling back, embracing him, pulling him even closer, skin on skin, heat and damp and skin and it is perfect, the pressure of him, the presence of him, _Crowley_ inside him, stretching him, taking what is his, what has always been his and his alone, hands soothing his boney, quivering ribcage, playing with his hair again, gripping his neck because he _can_ , now, _he can_ , and isn't that just, isn't that…

He isn't moving, his demon, deep inside him, keeping almost perfectly still so deep inside him, _inside him_ , so nearly perfectly still, so good for him, wonderful eyes pressed shut, just above, inches away, closed off and _look at me. Look at me, you idiot, see my devotion, see what you are doing to me, please,_ please _know me like this, too, like you know me anywhere_.

It's an unusual sensation where they meet, the stretch not quite uncomfortable, not quite pleasant either. He feels unusually full, human nerves and muscles throbbing to accommodate Crowley, _Crowley_ , who lowers himself on trembling arms to press his nose and, _oh_ , and a huffy half-kiss to Aziraphale's neck.

He remains there, glued to Aziraphale, face glued to his neck, voice little more than a hiss, a staggered, soft little thing, a series of hot, rushed breaths of air into his neck.

"Are you. How does… is thisssss-"

***

Aziraphale grips him tight and Crowley doesn’t look, doesn’t dare to look when he holds his head to his, bone on bone, chin on neck, the softest neck, and _fuck_ it's so good, it's too good, oh fuck it's _too_ good and then he starts talking, the bastard, in that trinkling cooing murmur he used for Warlock sometimes, now just for Crowley, _just for him_ , splashing over him, rambling and frantic and _good_ , too good. 

" _Yes_ , oh _yes_ my darling, oh I _adore_ you like this, oh, I adore you anywhere, adore you when you hissing at me and drink all my wine, all my most expensive wine, when you call me ridiculous and fussy and _Angel_ ," and his voice is breathless, so honest, keen, it cuts right through him, shatters him when he starts and then he goes and says "I love-" and-

"-Fuck, ffffuck shut up, _ssshut up_ , Aziraphale, or I'll- I'll explode and you'll be left with- with fucking _nothing_ but fucking- fucking _ffnnngff_ fucking demon- demon gunk all over you-"

Aziraphale laughs, sparkling like champagne and Crowley can feel it in his weird human bones, bubbling in his flesh, fizzing in the skin of his neck and Crowley _can't_ , can't take it, can't help-

***

Crowley whimpers, whimpers desperately into his neck and then he pushes into him, hard, overwhelming and biting just a little and _filling_ , filling him so entirely and it's magical, miraculous, it's _wonderful_ , it's all those things it should not be as he pulls out and thrusts back in again, his demon, wet and dark and slippery, stretching him out, pushing into the most intimate part of him and _oh please, my love, my darling, please, let me see you come undone; fall apart inside me I will catch you, shield you, keep you safe with me_.

It feels forbidden, just as much as the rest, to have his fingers in his soft, bristly hair, hold him tight, feel his scalp, to know the shape of his head beneath his mane and Aziraphale has to kiss him, his head, feel him with every part of his own wonderful corporation that can feel, nose on cheekbone, chin ghosting stubble, lips finally catching lips and _look at me, look at me darling, my darling Crowley, my Crowley_ , hips shifting just a little and Crowley, oh _Crowley_ , ever so wonderfully responsive, so in tune, changes with him, angle just a little different and pulls back out, drags across the back of him and _OH-_

***

" _Crowley_!”

His angel shivers against him, chest to chest, grips his hair and his arse and right now there is only them and their breaths and the gentle squeaking softness of the bed beneath them finding a slow, steady rhythm. Crowley pushes in again, carefully, _carefully_ and Aziraphale convulses, clutches his hip, moans his name again. 

And Crowley is ridiculous, has no self-discipline, he can't help himself, his eyes fly open and

and

and Aziraphale is _just there_ , and the bastard's looking right at him, hot and pink and sweaty, _gorgeous_ , hair undone in a halo around him. The angel smiles in greeting, open-mouthed and panting, and the smile fills his eyes, bright with every bright emotion, sparkling full of _them_ , of Crowley, he can see himself in there, and maybe there's just a little bit of holy water in them too, because they devastate him, Aziraphale's never-settling eyes, undo him like he knew they would and he’s gone now, mad, loses every last ounce of self-control to Aziraphale, his eyes and his hands in his skin and his damp curls and the wetness of his mouth and _fuck_ those eyes it's him _it's him_ and Crowley can do nothing but hold on, desperately, rocking back and forth, overcome with an awe that builds and builds, impossibly, sending sparks across his skin, his prick, every part of him connected to Aziraphale, all of him, his entire being and then Aziraphale gasps, lips against his throat, gasps his name, presses _Crowley_ right into his skin and _FFFFUCK, FUCK NO_ Crowley does explode, powerless against him, the last of his willpower ebbing out, given to Aziraphale, leaving him a broken, helpless wreck and for a moment, there is nothing but the crushing aftershock coursing through his body, amazement, pure, devastating awe and the angel’s staggered breath.

Then comes his hand in his hair, soft and gentle, then some time after his wet, warm mouth on his forehead, his chest rising and falling beneath him, cock pressing into his stomach and _shit, fuck_ , Aziraphale _isn't there_ _yet_ _._

Crowley makes a truly Herculean effort to release himself, gets up on one wobbly elbow, crushes his mouth, his entire face, unto the little hairs on Aziraphale's chest on his way to the angel’s mouth, entirely too broken to have any control over how he meets his lips, his tongue, and he realises somewhere at the edges of his consciousness that the angel is half-holding him up, forced to lift up his devastated, liquid body for their kiss, and it should be shameful, should be awkward but it is perfect, Crowley doesn't care, it'sssssperfectfucking _perffffect_.

***

Aziraphale grins into his mouth, lets him have it, lets him rest, rest on top of him until he can't hold back anymore, puts a firm hand on either side of his demon's sharp, beautiful face, lifts him slightly, kisses him again, bucks up against him really quite- really rather pointedly.

"My dear," he breathes, "if you wouldn't, wouldn't mind, just, just lifting up slightly, just so that I can get, get a hand…" He dips his head, looks down at the mess of red hair on his chest, explains to its owner. "I'm not, ah… I'm not sure that I can wait much longer, you see…"

***

It takes a moment for Crowley to assemble any kind of thought, another to form some sort of semi-coherent plan, but he _does_ , he _manages_ , he wobbles down, ever so inelegantly, until his face crashes down on Aziraphale's thigh. Close enough, he reckons, and shifts over until his hand finds its target, followed by his mouth, and he kisses the angel's prick clumsily, sucks and kisses him gently, hot and hard, velvet-soft and salty inside him, inside his mouth. And it works because this time it's _definitely_ Aziraphale who's moaning, Aziraphale who's gasping and squirming, hands in Crowley's hair again _fffuck,_ at the back of his head, setting a fast, hard rhythm and Crowley dares to look up, catches his eye and then _fffffuck_ then Aziraphale's there, he’s spilling over and it's _good_ , so _good_ , perfect and dirty and Crowley doesn't mind, doesn't mind the feel, the taste of him at all.

***

"Shut- shut up, Angel," Crowley mumbles into his stomach minutes, hours later, tickling him, lazy and warm and perfect.

"Honestly, Crowley, I thought it was utterly charming."

Crowley squirms, exactly as he'd hoped, clings to Aziraphale's body and that's- oh, that's really something. "Don't call it fucking _charming_ , Angel, you absolute pillock."

Aziraphale lets his hand run through soft hair again, no other purpose now than to feel them tickle his palm. "Hmmm. Adorable, then."

"…That's _so_ much worse."

"Lovely?"

Crowley buries his face in his soft, warm stomach, chin digging into his skin until he changes tack, nips halfheartedly at his hip.

"It was perfect, Crowley, _wonderful_. _You_ were perfect, my darling, my love.” He traces his jaw, the shape of his ear. “I love you, Crowley."

"I know."

" _Crowley._ "

"Ffffine. Love you too, Angel.” He hugs Aziraphale closer yet. “Unless you're doing your magic."

"Crowley!"

"'s garbage."

"It isn't _garbage_!"

"Makes me want to go back to Hell."

"Oh, that's no laughing matter, Crowley, particularly-"

"Well glad we agree, Angel, it's the least fun thing in existence since the Black bloody Death."

"Foul fiend."

"...Wankwings." He releases his hold with a massive sigh, crawls up to join Aziraphale. "Love you.”

“I know you do, my dear.”


End file.
